Much Ado About You
by Squashes
Summary: There isn't a thing in the wizarding world that could make Draco Malfoy, Slytherin Extraordinaire, ask for Granger's assistance. Except perhaps Azkaban. Yeah, that might do it. *Loosely based upon Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing*
1. A Case of the Mondays

Greetings, my fine fanfiction friends.

As promised, I publish this love child of mine six years to the day of my last update. And the laws declare that it shall be updated weekly for your viewing pleasure, or death to the author. Now come, celebrate my return to this lovely sphere of magic with me by toasting my lovely beta, AT Murphy.

Enjoy.

.o&o.

Draco Malfoy was having a bad day. Not that he'd ever use the phrase, but he had heard the Muggle-born call this a "bad case of the Mondays". And despite his good looks, wealth, and social charm, it seemed that he was trapped in an endless circuit of Mondays. He stared once again at the notice on his desk in front of him, and ran his hand through his fine silvery hair.

_To the Prestigious Assistant to the Assistant Council-Wizard of the Minister of Magic:_

_We hope that this letter greets you in good health and better work ethic._

_This is your second formal notice that the Ministry's Auror Division, in coalition with the Museum of Wizarding Antiquities' new exhibit of Relics of the Dark Arts, will conduct a purveying stroll of your properties to claim any illegal and/or ancient artifacts of Dark Magics, particularly those harmful to the wizarding race. _

_Please return with a letter of acknowledgement and an appropriate date and time within the next month to schedule this meeting. If you do not, then the Auror Division will happily complete the arduous task for you. We thank you for your kind considerations and look forward to seeing you at the appointed time._

_Sincerely,_

_The Auror Division_

_Signed, Nymphadora Tonks_

_Approved by the Minister of Magic, etc, etc._

_Signed, Kingsley Shacklebolt_

Draco ruefully sighed and muttered to himself. "_A purveying stroll of my properties,_ indeed. Call it what it is, you bastards." Draco may not have graduated at top of his class, but no one had ever called him a fool. He knew what this was, and the least they could do was admit it: 'twas a vengeful raid of his family's estate because of the demented blabber of an imprisoned father.

And really, they didn't have to expound on his embarrassingly lengthy, but ignominious, job title. That was just rubbing salt in the wounds.

After the first notice, an enraged (but icily calm) Draco had stormed (perhaps not too icily calm, after all) into the Minister's office and slammed the notice on his ornate desk. Shacklebolt glanced up in amusement, then returned to his pile of scrolls. "Ah, young Malfoy. I see you are still fond of dramatic entrances. Can I help you?"

Draco had bit his tongue before he spat out something to the effects of, "don't you dare try that Dumbledore nonchalance on me", but decided that it was best to let dead things lie exactly where they belonged.

"I wish to know, _sir_, why my family estate is being forcibly searched by the Auror division, and why I am being threatened with the sentence of possession of Dark Arts artifacts," Draco had managed in clipped tones, his shoulders rigid with rage.

Shacklebolt lifted his eyes from the documents he was surveying for a moment, and Draco thought he saw a flash of danger behind the smiling mask of mocha skin.

"Mr. Malfoy, I do not expect that you have hidden Dark Arts artifacts in your home, as you are a loyal wizard to the Ministry, and therefore, wizarding world peace. So, sir, unless you have something you wish to confess, I do not believe there is an issue." Shacklebolt bent over his paperwork again, signing with more aplomb than before.

Draco tried once more, resisting the urge to snatch up those scrolls that were clearly more important than he and rip them to shreds. "Sir, while I am indeed a citizen to peace and prosperity" –here Draco forced himself not to roll his eyes—"this is a grave injustice to my reputation, my family, and my estate. In addition, there may be hidden artifacts whose presence I am unaware of. It is ridiculous that I would be penalized for them—"

He realized his mistake as soon as he said the words. Shacklebolt caught it too and interrupted, looking over those distinguished gold glasses that were at such odds with his tall, bulky frame. "Mr. Malfoy, while I understand your concern for your…_reputation_, I am sure that if there are indeed hidden artifacts of the Dark Arts in your home that you are unaware of, you would be pleased that some of our Auror friends would rid you of them. That is, of course, if you didn't want them removed…"

At Draco's curt shake of his head, Shacklebolt smiled slightly and returned to his paperwork.

"Then we are finished here. I assure you, if you assist the Aurors in every way, you will not be held accountable for the foibles of your less…civilized ancestors. Good day, Mr. Malfoy." The Minister of Magic did not look up from those damn scrolls as Draco tersely bowed his head and turned sharply on his heel to leave the room.

That had been two days ago. With no response, the Aurors had sent another missive, this time no doubt commissioning a gossipy witch below him in office rank to write it. Draco did not want to think of all his inferiors giddily chatting of his demise. How they would crow in scandalous delight when, no doubt, artifacts were discovered and he was carted off to Azkaban to join his father. His family connections, while a boon before the Dark Lord's fall, had chaffed horribly afterwards.

Thanks to the Malfoy name, he had always been the Bad Boy of the Ministry, though through no fault of his own. Well, there was that minor mishap with Dumbledore and then seventh year...but Draco worked diligently as the assistant to the assistant of some assistant, despite the stacks of galleons that called his name. He didn't need to work, per se, but lazing about the empty manor of memories with his needy mother wasn't his idea of a good life.

Nonetheless, there were a few perks to being dubbed the Bad Boy of the Ministry. Young witches tended to melt and giggle furiously when he passed, and he always had scores of invitations to parties from curious co-workers. That didn't patch up the loneliness that Draco was excellent at ignoring, but it was often a welcome salve.

"Urm, Mr. Malfoy? You have a message?" Draco pulled his head out of his hands, shaking off his reverie. His secretary, a buxom redhead with a super-sonic giggle, was apparently unable to speak in imperative sentences and sounded perpetually inquisitive. He had never really caught her name. Denise, or Darla, or something like that. Sighing, Draco merely nodded to his desk and returned to staring at the notice. He had to do something…no matter what he did, the Aurors would find something incriminating and he'd be off to Azkaban faster than you could chant "kill the pureblood". It would kill his mother. _Not to mention_, Draco thought wryly, _my social life_.

"Mr. Malfoy?" That damn woman again. He looked up, scowling.

"What?" The word emerged more harshly than he had intended. At her stricken look, he scowled further. Damn conscience. "What?" he said again, intentionally removing his scowl and softening his voice. It was harder than expected, especially when she giggled in relief.

"Urm, I've been trying to find the extra quills for this afternoon's meeting? And I've looked everywhere in the closet, and I just can't find it? Maybe if a second pair of eyes looked?..." Darlene managed to look attractively lost while squeezing her pert breasts together in cute confusion. Draco approved.

He rose from his leather chair and nodded. He hadn't been productive today, and Merlin help him if he couldn't find quills in a closet. "Right," he began brusquely. "You've looked everywhere?" At second glance at Darcy, he decided he didn't need an answer. Even if she had, it had no significance to his search. She probably had a hard time finding her lusciously long eyelashes to apply the gobs of mascara to them.

Striding towards the closet across from his desk, Draco heard Daphne's stiletto heels clicking almost ominously behind him. How that woman functioned in every day society and retained a job, Draco had no idea. But at least she had a great arse.

"_Lumos_." His wand shone cold, white light into the deep closet. Stack of old memos, wooden dustbins, and a random assortment of sub-par office supplies cluttered the area. He could feel Diane's warm breath on his neck. Next to wet socks, his greatest pet peeve was someone else's air on his body. It was just repulsive.

"Oooooh," she cooed, expelling more of her moist carbon dioxide onto his being, "you're so clever, using the light spell like that? I just tried looking in the dark, you know?"

Draco could stand it no longer. He spun around and stepped back, farther into the closet. Anything to get away from her repellent breath. Minty, fruity, or fetid, all breathing mammals should keep their personal air away from each other. However, in doing so, Draco realized that something much worse than breathing on Dara's mind.

Closing the closet door behind her to just a crack, she moved towards him like a cat stalking her prey. He recognized that look in her vapid eyes immediately: it was his signature smolder. She wanted his meat like it was her grandmother's pot roast. Draco, despite his larger intellect and countless skills, was rooted to his spot in…fear? He wasn't sure what it was, but it felt like a House Elf was pounding its little way through his heart. _Side note: not a pleasant emotion. Avoid at all costs._

He hadn't realized he was backing away until he felt the sturdy shelves of the closet behind him. He still clenched his glowing wand. Draco mentally slapped himself in an effort to shake some sense into his prodigiously well-dressed person. He, Draco Malfoy, had faced death and looked into its slitted red eyes. He was not afraid of his silly, sexpot secretary. He was the supervisor, and he would handle this situation with his usual calm and biting wit.

"Now, see here…" he began, but she was on him before he could finish.

"I've been waiting for this for _weeks_, Mr. Malfoy! Just dying to touch you, and kiss you, and _feel_ you…"

By the gods, the woman was speaking in statements.

Draco was growing strangely anxious with each second–this woman was a tigress!— as he brushed her roving hands from his chest. "That is quite enough. If you know what's best for you—"

She moaned (_moaned_!) in what appeared to be excitement. "Mr. Malfoy! We don't have to play games anymore. Take me! I'm yours!" With this rather dramatic statement, she struck a sensual pose against Draco, wrapping her leg around his hip and draping her head on his shoulder.

Draco knew he was attractive, but he had never had a woman attack him with such vigor. Flattered as he may be, Draco was in no mood for her to try her witch's magic on his wand. He had work to do, and besides, he certainly did not want to snoogle with this feline in a closet. Lastly, he was pretty sure it was illegal for supervisors to shag their employees, let alone the timing. Twenty minutes before a meeting? If the secretary had any neuron sparks to speak of, she would have considered that bit before launching her attack. With the weight of the law on his side, Draco finally felt empowered to stop these shenanigans.

"Ms. D…er, I have no intent in 'taking you'. I am quite content with our previous arrangement of memos and stapling. Now remove yourself at once."

Said with all the authority of a Malfoy, it should have nearly magically bound her to obey him. Sadly, it did nothing but titillate the poor girl further.

She giggled most obscenely. "My darling, you are _quite_ the player. Now stop pretending and give me what we both want!" With that lurid statement, she grabbed him by his crisp Oxford collar and began ravishing his mouth. Simultaneously, her legs sprang around his waist with all the frightening strength of a thestral.

Draco was quite undone. And not in the shag-in-the-closet sort of way, that leaves you tingling with pleasure and naughty scandal, but the sort that fills you with confusion and despair. Short of hexing the woman, he was at a loss of how to rid himself of this issue. This really was a bad day, and seemingly getting worse.

As Dina began pulling at his lips with her teeth and mussing his hair up with her roaming hands (_not his hair!),_ Draco gathered up his strength for one big shove and—

BAM. In the midst of the struggle against secretarial lust, someone dropped directly on top of them with little consideration of where their elbows landed. Dawn screeched into his ear, and Draco took this opportunity of chaos to shove her away. Whoever landed on him –how the hell did that happen?— had done him a great favor, and then first thing he was going to do was buy the fellow a big shot of firewhiskey…

And then, by the light of his wand (still miraculously in his hand after all this harassment), he could clearly see the crumpled and winded form of his arch-nemesis from Hogwarts.

"…Granger?"

.o&o.

Hey, it's my birthday. Well. Sort of. But don't worry about sending me a welcome-home gift; your lovely review is more than enough. Thoughts, questions, reactions: all welcome.

Next in our shocking tale: Malfoy and Granger have it out, just for old times sake. Don't forget about Darla. Or Dara. Whatever her name is.


	2. The Evils of Spare Quills

As promised, here is the second installment displaying the Malfoysian struggles of Grangerly Park. Enjoy.

.o&o.

"Granger?"

Granger blinked owlishly up at him from where she had landed, which was conveniently on top of his devilish secretary. Her face reflected his astonishment in a rare moment of agreement.

"Draco _Malfoy_?" she squeaked incredulously, and Draco was immediately reminded why he had found her so irritating. "Wha-what happened?"

Draco stood from where he had been thrown against the shelves and straightened his robes imperiously. "I should ask the very same of you, Granger."

The two entangled bodies –an entrée of long limbs and fresh skin that he couldn't help but appreciate—began the process of undoing themselves. Draco noted the fiendish look in Diana's eyes and quickly hopped around the ladies to open the closet door. Sweet, bright light poured a pathway towards the struggling figures.

"Oh, I am sorry…I just don't know what happened…"

"Get…OFF me!" There was a yelp, probably from Granger, as she was tossed off of his angry attacker.

"Well, no need to be so rude." Draco could clearly determine Granger's domineering tones by the unladylike snort that preceded it. "It was an accident, after all."

Draco watched in stony-faced amusement as both women huffed and puffed their way apart. In the comfort of his rather spartan office, Draco finally felt in control of the situation. Here, in the light, he could not be trapped against a shelving unit and groped. And though he couldn't really conjure the proper terms for it (certainly not gratitude), Granger's sudden appearance did add a measure of security. He quietly slipped his wand into his pocket and patted it.

As the two women emerged from the dusty closet, Draco stepped aside. He smirked at Granger's crumpled appearance, but quickly swallowed his amusement at the sight of Doreen. She was no longer smoldering. Instead, her usually confused expression was filled with wrath as she limped from the closet on her broken stiletto heel.

"Ms. Delia," he began coldly, no longer caring what he called her, "you are fired. Please pack up your desk. And do leave behind those extra quills for the meeting this afternoon."

Draco supposed he should have expected the slap, but the sobbing was quite unbearable.

"You absolute _bastard_! After all these months, and all the work I've done? You don't even know my name! And you just toss me away? Me? Because I couldn't find your bloody _quills_?" she sobbed into her hands, mascara loyally clinging to her eyelashes. Then she stopped abruptly, eyes glinting prettily with unshed tears. "You will regret this, okay? I hope you drop dead and…and die!"

Draco could feel the dragon of annoyance rise up in his chest. He was probably going to Azkaban for some stupid Dark Arts antiquities, his underling secretary had physically ravaged him in his own closet, and now _Granger_ was here to witness it all. He could barely handle the numerous insults. Enough is enough.

"Firstly, that's a tautology. It is impossible for one to drop dead, and then die again. Secondly, I have never cared to know your name, Danika, and will live in perfect contentment without it. Thirdly, you are a terrible secretary with the brains of an pigeon and would have been fired in a few days anyway. Lastly, you—" Draco remembered Granger, who was glaring fiercely at him, and spoke _sotto voce_, "—practically assaulted me with undesired affection. As I said: you. Are. Fired. Remove yourself immediately."

With another howl of anger and —what Draco thought was unjustified— pain, Dorothy limped hurriedly out of his office. He took the sounds of banging and slamming as positive signs of her acquiescence, and smiled slightly in relief before turning to Granger.

"Looks like you owe me a secretary," he drawled cleverly. Draco would never tell her how currently thankful he was for Granger's habit of getting in the way. But oh Merlin, was he ever.

Granger met his smile with an unattractive snarl. "How could you treat her like that?"

Draco was inwardly shocked. It had been a while since so many women had attacked him for doing absolutely nothing wrong. But he responded with his usual impressive wit and composure. "I'm Draco Malfoy, remember?"

Granger was practically foaming at the mouth. Keeping his smirk in place, Draco met her red-faced fury with icy eyes. _Freeze burn, Granger_. "I know you take up the causes of the most hopeless of mammals, but really. That woman does not need your pity."

"Perhaps not, but she deserves to be treated with basic decency. And from what I have seen, she has not received any of _that_ for a while." Hermione felt her anger bubble at Malfoy's continued smirk. Yes, the woman was a rude tart— and wore enough makeup for all of the witches of UK— but she surely didn't deserve to be shagged, fired, and insulted all in the span of five minutes.

Malfoy's eyes sparked dangerously. His smirk, however, remained admirably firm. "Granger, I am sure that if you were privy to all that I have had to endure, you would be directing your renowned pity towards me."

Hermione rolled her eyes. All men were masochistic, chauvinistic pigs in one way or another. Malfoy just had the misfortune of being a pig in all ways. As a result, she engaged in a rarity: she did not think. She just spewed.

"Please, don't tell me that that poor secretary deserved what she got? You practically assaulted her, and then you fire her because she couldn't find quills? I don't need to be cognizant of all the details to know that you are clearly in the wrong. I am quite sure that Minister Shacklebolt will be most appreciative when I report this to him."

Hermione whipped around with the momentum of righteous fury and headed towards the racket of banging drawers. She was going to at least talk to the poor dear, maybe help her litigate the legal waters as she prosecuted Malfoy for his malicious acts of—

"Granger. Granger! Wait."

Hermione told herself she only stopped because of the wretched desperation in his velvet voice.

She turned slowly. "What?" she hissed, anger at his blatant cruelty still boiling.

Malfoy still stood where she had left him. His smirk was gone, replaced by a tight expression. He clenched and unclenched his jaw. "I believe," he started carefully, "there has been a misunderstanding."

The unladylike snort burst out of her like a fat man in children's swimming trunks. "Likely there has been. You're an innocent bystander, is that it?"

Malfoy ran his hand across his face and grimaced. "You have no idea."

Two snorts and three eye-rolls later, Malfoy and Hermione were sitting across from each other at his desk. Hermione had even stopped hissing everything. It was, Hermione realized with a start, rather civilized conversation. Considering, of course. "So, your secretary was fired today because of unprofessional misconduct on _her_ part?"

"That, and her complete incompetence with the English language and basic witchcraft," Malfoy muttered. Hermione glared. As expected, it had no effect on the man. He merely smirked and raised a silvery eyebrow.

"It didn't look like the unprofessional misconduct was only on her part when I landed on you two," Hermione challenged sourly.

"Yes, well, maybe if you looked a bit closer at the situation, you would have seen _my_ back against the wall, and _her_ extremities pulling me closer." If she hadn't known it was impossible, she would have said that Malfoy squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. As it was Malfoy, she just assumed he was getting comfortable.

"Speaking of your landing, Granger, how the hell did you get here?" Malfoy asked in what could be considered exasperated gratitude. That is, if it weren't Malfoy, of course.

Hermione laughed a little uneasily. "Truthfully, I am not sure. I was cleaning up at the Weasley's when—" At Malfoy's cough, Hermione could feel a heated flush spreading across her face.

"Still cleaning up after Weasley, are you?" Malfoy's smirk grew. So did Hermione's annoyance.

"That's really none of your business, and if I were, there wouldn't be anything wrong with it!" she snapped, half-rising from her chair. Draco held out his hand, as if to pacify her. She sat down again, still thoroughly annoyed and, Hermione was shocked to discover, slightly embarrassed. And why should she be? There was nothing wrong that she was finally with Ron Weasley, and so what if he had asked her to help clean the stuffy attic in the middle of the summer? And the fact that he had wandered off to enjoy a game of Quidditch with Harry had not bothered her one bit, either.

"Right. Well, whatever flicks your wand, Granger. So, you were cleaning and then…?"

Surprised that Malfoy would pass up a chance to riddle her with insensitive insults, Hermione continued after clearing her throat. "Well, I was just going through some of Mr. Weasley's old work junk, when I touched a teapot and then…ah."

Malfoy raised his eyebrows in surprise. "A portkey?"

"Yes, but how? Portkeys have timers on them, and are useful only once…and doesn't the Ministry have magical restrictions against that?" Hermione forgot herself for a moment, there in Malfoy's office, as she beamed delightedly at the puzzle before her. She once again became aware of Malfoy's stoic face, and flushed. Why did he have to be so damn cold? Made her feel somewhat unhinged.

Malfoy leaned back in his chair, caressing the leather wings in thought. "Well, I recall Father always mocking that Weasley for his silly inventions…like the flying car that Potter and Weasel..ley" (Hermione was proud to notice that her glare worked at least once) "crashed into the Weeping Willow in second year. Maybe he twiddled a bit more with illegal magical items, such as unauthorized portkeys."

Hermione had to admit: she was simultaneously impressed with Malfoy and ashamed that she hadn't thought of it first. She knew the man, for Merlin's sake. "I suppose I shall just ask him when I see him next."

They both drifted into an uncomfortable silence, Hermione glancing at her watch and Draco watching her glance at her watch. Hermione was sure this uneasy truce was bound to break at any moment; even four years of maturation couldn't take the Slytherin out of Draco Malfoy's silk robes. She decided to take her leave while they both had their vital organs.

"Well," Hermione began in a professional, clipped tone, "it's been…er, lovely to catch up with you, Malfoy. Best of luck with your next secretary. I think I'll just head over to the Museum next door and finish up some work at the exhibit." She stood, brushing her loose hair behind her ear. Then, she stuck out her hand, immediately resisting the urge to grimace at the awkwardness of it all.

After a painful moment, Malfoy stood and shook her hand firmly, his own hand warm and calloused.

_Must be from Quidditch_.

The thought came unbidden, but Hermione couldn't shake the image of a trim Malfoy handling his broom with expert ease at his empty, echoing estate. Hermione didn't like the pang of pity that hit her. It was quite unwarranted. She threw in a few crying children and dead puppies into the image and felt much better.

With one last glance at the standing Malfoy, his expression indecipherable, she nodded and turned to go.

She heard, "Give my regards to the Weasel" in his deep, lilting voice, just before shutting the office door behind her.

Really, the man was incorrigible.

Draco sank into his chair, exhausted from his many ordeals. Merlin, to be nice to Granger had chaffed him horribly. Especially when she gave him the perfect ammunition: Weasley. Really, that boy was easier to mock than Luna Lovegood's pet squirffle bat.

But the most exhausting ordeal was the realization that had struck him as Granger mumbled her awkward goodbyes (don't Muggle-borns receive _any_ sort of lessons in manners?): she worked at the Museum of Wizarding Antiquities.

He had forgotten that Granger was somehow in charge of its newest exhibit, the _Relics of the Dark Arts_. From what the Daily Prophet had reported, it was a comprehensive exhibit on the history of the Dark Arts, with a focus on the rise of Dark Lord. However, and most importantly to Draco, the exhibit had been _collecting_ artifacts of the Dark Arts.

With this unpleasantly helpful realization, he glanced at his silver pocket watch and groaned. The undesired shenanigans with difficult women (really, could a wizard catch a break?) had wasted this immaculately dressed person's valuable time. With a will that he did not know he possessed, he dragged himself out of his chair to attend the dreary departmental meeting. Besides informing his superior that he required yet another secretary, he'd have to get that nagging thought out of his mind.

He wearily suspected that his terrible idea could not be forgotten. His mother had always said that his mind was a fertile planting ground that clung to anything that passed through. Most likely, he'd toss and turn in his silken sheets in the strenuous effort to forget the [illegal] part Granger could play in his freedom, to no avail.

But he'd be damned if he wouldn't try with the help of his favorite bottle of Firewhiskey.

.o&o.

Like it? Hate it? Confused? Comatose? Can't know what you think if you don't tell me! I'd love to hear your thoughts. Let's play, like the Londoners and Dickens did in the good ol' days. Ready, set, go!

Oh, and honestly, I just want others to enjoy reading this just as much as I have enjoyed writing it. Pass it along, if you wish. –tips hat-


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